Recovery
by Collie Parkillo
Summary: Ray Garraty's recovery, or lack thereof. Post-Walk. Contains triggering material for emetophobia and self-harm.


There was dead silence in the hospital room.

He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious for, only that he remembered running, running to something, and then it'd all went black. He recalled the faces of his mother and Jan, fuzzy and unclear, and doctors with surgical masks that made them look like horror movie characters.

But now that he opened his eyes, there was nobody. He was in a room high up, with two large windows not far from the left side of his bed. He could see a city below. He didn't know what city. It looked like early morning, but he'd long since forgotten how time worked.

He made a deliberate, slow movement, touching his forearm with one hand. There was a sticky, clear bandage on his skin, like they'd given him a shot. His skin looked cleaner. Had they bathed him? He was wearing a soft, blue hospital shirt, so they'd undressed him. Suddenly he thought of his mother saying she'd walk him down the street with no clothes, and a lump in his throat formed. Would you let me jerk you off, a voice with a sharp New Jersey accent said in his head. We'll hang upside down from the moon and scrape our shoe upon the stars. Amen, hallelujah, chunky peanut butter. He closed his eyes, as though that would make the feeling go away.

Slowly, he sat up. He opened his eyes , taking a deep breath. He was alive. He wished he wasn't but he was alive. He took a deep breath. In, then out. In, then out. They'd told him at modern dance school that breathing was nature's medicine for the brain. Just breathe. Breathe and things will be okay.

He really, really had to piss. He gripped the post of the hospital bed and forced himself up. The bathroom door was only a few steps away, but one step sent him tumbling to the floor. It was hard and cold down there. His head was ringing. He still couldn't feel his legs at all. He blindly groped for something to hold onto, grabbing the side of the bed and trying to pull himself back onto it. But when he tried to lift his torso up with only his arms, there was a searing pain in his hands and he fell again. Tears were beginning to spring at his eyes.

Was he really alive? He felt dead. It was too quiet. He couldn't even stand. This had to be some kind of weird afterlife. Just a moment later he'd see a thin smile and a scar walk through the door and say "Ray, buddy, welcome to the afterlife. I told you, nobody wins the Long Walk." And maybe they'd kiss. Maybe he'd jerk him off after all. Maybe they'd do the things they couldn't when they were alive.

His bladder was beginning to pain him, and he didn't remember how long he just laid there, feeling like a fucking baby. When the nurse came in, he began to cry quietly as she called for assistance. They brought him in to the muscular and nerve disorder specialist, a lady with short, blond hair whose skin clung to her face like she'd had one too many plastic surgeries.

"It's his nerves. It has to do with trauma, see. His brain has essentially 'turned off' the nerves in his legs. It's like the placebo effect at its most physical. There's no guarantee of it being fixed, but we can try occupational therapy, and as his emotional therapy advances it may start to get better." He watched her talk to his mother, who was shaking where she stood. "And I'm nobody to diagnose this, but he seems to be selectively mute at the moment. But once the psychotherapist gets to him you can get that confirmed." She smiled and patted him on the back.

He never did get to take that piss.

On the second day of his awake and alive post-Walk state, the wheelchair became a part of his life. A nurse brought it in, saying that she'd brought him a present. She lined it up against the bed. He held onto the bed post again and slid himself into the soft, leather seat of it. His feet were propped up.

"This thing runs itself so you don't need anyone to push you, but now that you're awake, how would you like to take a little walk with me?" At the word walk he tensed. He opened his mouth, then closed it. No sound came out. He held the handles of the wheelchair so hard his palms hurt. "I'll show you around," the nurse said, pushing him in his wheelchair out of the room. "You're currently in the Major's own care facility. It's a little place for government officials who are injured, and Long Walkers. Once you're a little more settled in, you can get around here yourself, but I think it'll be good for you to know where things are."

She took him in an elevator down to a cafeteria. The elevator was the size of a bedroom, and he could see himself in the mirrored ceiling. His face had been shaved, his hair had been brushed, he looked almost like Raymond Davis Garraty from before the Walk. The nurse wheeled him around the cafeteria. He suddenly realized he was hungry-he hadn't eaten since his last food belt. As they passed a buffet par of sandwiches, he grabbed the piece of metal that the trays moved along, trying to signal to her that he wanted to stop.

"What do you want to eat?" She asked. He scanned the line of sandwiches. Peanut butter and jelly. The Rabbit. The Major's son. He pointed at that, his finger trembling. She took it off the buffet bar and handed it to him, and he ate. He scarfed it down, his mouth overwhelmed with the sensation of food that wasn't the kind they fed to astronauts. Who had said that? Had it been Hank Olson? Before his brain could register what he was doing, he puked up the sandwich. The nurse was saying something concerned to him, but he couldn't hear it, he was hearing Olson screaming that he did it wrong, he did it wrong. But it wasn't Olson who'd done it wrong. It was him. Ray Garraty.

"I…did…it…wrong!" He was screaming, his vocal cords suddenly kicking into gear. "IdiditwrongIdiditwrongIdiditwrong!" He started to cry, and the brain behind the actions was telling him that he was making a fool of himself. Fuck you, mind of Raymond Davis Garraty, he thought. You destroyed my legs and turned off my voice and now you're just turning it on whenever you feel like it.

He breathed in and out, and somebody was mopping up the mess he'd made on the floor. People were looking at him, so he shut his eyes and just tried to focus his breathing. He was in the elevator again when he opened them, and soon he was back in his room. His wheelchair sat by the bed, as though inviting him to get onto it and just wheel himself away. He was pretty sure he blacked out then.

When he woke up, there was a jelly sandwich and a glass of water on the side table by his bed. A plastic fork and knife sat beside them. He picked up the plastic knife, suddenly having an idea. He felt its serrated edge with one finger, then brought it up to his cheek and began to rub it against his skin. Where had Pete's scar been? Above his left cheekbone, right? Oh, god, Garraty thought. Oh, god, I'm forgetting. What if in two years I don't even remember them at all?

After what seemed like hours, there was blood on his hands. A lot of blood. Shit. What had he done? What would Pete say? You gave me your heart, the Walk tore it apart, and who gives a fart.

The nurse didn't scream when she came in, like he thought she would. She just calmly told him he was going to need stitches and he was going to have his food cut for him now.

The next couple days were a blur of going to the emergency room, having his mother touch his bandaged face and cry and ask him why, Ray? And she told him the worst thing of all. She told him that she'd tried to stop him from enrolling the Long Walk, and look at what he'd done.

Look at what he'd done, indeed. You've broken my heart and Jan's, his mother said. What will she say when she sees you like this? The Major will be by to discuss the prize with you soon. What will The Major say?

I don't give a damn, he thought.

* * *

><p><strong>Thought about the idea of Garraty in a wheelchair after the Walk, just went with it. My writing's been a awfully happy lately, needs a good dose of AngstTragedy every now and then. Suggested listening for this is "Hospital Beds" by the Cold War Kids. **


End file.
